


beat your swords into ploughshares

by zinc_carpenter



Category: Dream SMP (Minecraft Fiction Roleplay), Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-24 09:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30070215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinc_carpenter/pseuds/zinc_carpenter
Summary: the fact that ranboo preferred to sleep with a literal pack of wolves rather than knock on techno and phil’s door is a little concerning, but, well, techno does have a reputation.
Relationships: Ranboo & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 478





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> /sticks leg in air/ thanks to dsmp special interest for this being literally THE LONGEST FIC I'VE EVER WRITTEN

l’manberg is a hardly cooled crater when the first snow falls that year. 

against techno’s better judgement, phil risks a visit one day. techno only lets him go alone after he promises to bring invisibility pots, just in case a ( _former_ ) resident of l’manberg is feeling vengeful that day. he stands on crumbling cobblestone that used to be part of a building, at the brink of the worst of the destruction. frigid wind whips his coattails around, and without thinking, he shakes himself, instinctually trying to mantle his wings to protect himself from the icy gusts. 

nothing happens, of course. his battered elytra are at home, carefully tucked away at the very bottom of one of techno’s many chests, buried under enough random shit that phil can manage to resist the urge to take them out and pour obsessively over every singed feather.

so instead, he pushes his hands deeper into his pockets and hunches his shoulders, tucking his chin to his chest as he stares down at the jagged bedrock lining the very bottom of the crater. the harsh black and gray striations of the rock are softened, partially concealed by the powdery snow just beginning to dust the decimated area. 

there’s something bitter in phil’s mouth, and it’s tinged a little like triumph and a little like regret. 

— 

it becomes routine to wake in techno’s spare bedroom, cocooned in blankets and far too warm; to carry his clothes into the living room and dress in front of the fireplace, because during the night, the embers always manage to leach the heat from the rest of the house. more than once, the water pitcher on his dresser has a thin sheen of ice on it. 

techno is nearly always up before him, and _always_ fixes two cups of tea, even when he’s barely awake and moving like one of sam’s automatons. technoblade is many things, but a morning person has never been one of them.

phil didn’t realize how much he’d missed sharing a routine with another living being until he has one again. in l’manberg, ghostbur was sometimes around and sometimes not. to be polite, he’d hover at the table while phil ate breakfast, until he’d forget why he was there and float absently through a wall, looking for something more interesting to do than watch phil eat toast. 

just how much things have changed only truly starts to sink in when he wakes one morning and looks out his bedroom window, and instead of seeing l’manberg — arching bridges and railings picked out in dark oak and spruce, festooned with l’manbergian flags and tethered multi-colored lanterns, blanketed with snow and lit by a warm golden glow from house windows and porch lanterns — he sees nothing but white. instead of hearing fundy, tubbo, and quackity yelling gleefully outside his front door, caught up in an impromptu snowball fight, there’s just a storm howling. wind whistles through a poorly sealed joint in the window frame. 

when he’s gotten dressed and headed into the kitchen to retrieve his cup of dandelion tea from techno, techno nods at the window, where hoarfrost is creeping up the glass pane, and says, “got our first snowstorm.”

it’s still dark outside, and neither of them feel like trudging through biting wind and stinging snow to do chores just yet, so they sit in front of the fire and sip their tea, waiting for sunrise. techno digs out his wire-rimmed glasses and cracks open a dog-eared book, and phil debates whether it’s worth the trouble of getting up to retrieve a torn pair of trousers to mend, eyes half-closed, shoulder pressed to techno’s, basking in the warmth from the freshly fed fire. before he realizes it, techno’s bent over him, nudging him awake with a smirk, and clear, cold winter sunlight is pouring through the windows. 

“wake up, old man.”

phil half-heartedly bats techno’s hand away. “fuck off,” he groans, but affection bleeds through the harsh words.

techno’s expression softens, but he doesn’t poke fun at phil, just snorts. “stopped snowing. we’re getting low on firewood; gonna go cut some. i don’t want us to run out and then get snowed in.”

“you think we’ll get snowed in?” phil asks, yawning and stretching, feeling very much like an elderly cat.

techno shrugs. “gonna head out. there’s meat scraps from the deer i butchered the other day on the back porch, you can feed the dogs that.”

“sure,” phil says. he’s happy to be useful, if he’s being honest. once upon a time, he wouldn’t have thought twice about bunking with techno. after all, they spent years together, only seeing other faces when someone trespassed on their turf. but years have passed. things have changed. and even if the techno in front of him, solid and blunt and laconic, is the same techno he’s fought back to back with, what feels like a lifetime ago, now, periodically he still finds himself pushing down the awkwardness that comes from feeling like an intrusive houseguest. 

when it becomes obvious phil has little to no intention of budging from in front of the fire, techno rolls his eyes and pulls phil up off the couch. his grip is firm, callouses rough against phil’s wrist, and he holds on for a moment longer than necessary, before letting phil go with an uncharacteristically gentle squeeze. 

phil’s not exactly looking forward to braving the outdoors. the sun may be out in full strength, but there’s a thick layer of ice on carl’s water trough when he glances out the window, telling the truth of the temperature, so he bundles up — an extra pair of woolen socks he’d knit while he was on house arrest, a maroon sweater, and the leather boots he’d spent an afternoon waterproofing with a lump of beeswax from the hives. over it all goes the pale blue cloak he’d sewn himself, and trimmed with fur from the arctic hares techno has brought home. he’s quite proud of it — it’s by far the most complex piece of clothing he’s ever sewn — and seeing it hanging beside techno’s matching cloak on the back of the door sends a warm feeling through his chest. 

the ice on the water bucket fractures easily beneath the butt of his hatchet, and he finds an empty pail to carry the meat in. on his trek back through the house, he sets the bucket briefly in front of the fireplace to thaw so it’s not rock hard when the wolves get to it, and calls in the direction of techno’s bedroom, “layer up, mate; cold as shit out there.” the noncommittal grumble he gets in reply doesn’t phase him, and he finds himself humming as he trudges down the front steps, a pail in either hand, heading for the dog kennel. 

he’s not mobbed by hungry wolves the second he opens the door, which is... odd. there’s a few curious whines and inquisitive huffs, and when he sets the pails down on the cobblestone floor to dig out his flint and steel and relight the lantern, one or two of the pack wander over to investigate. after a few attempts, the lantern flares to life, and he glances around the unfinished interior of the kennel, looking for the absent welcome party. as it turns out, they’re all sleeping in a — well, a dog pile — on the pile of straw he’d pitchforked in the day before, in anticipation of the weather turning. 

he freezes when he spots _who_ they’re sleeping with. because ranboo — the scrawny, all-awkward-angles ender hybrid he’d found wandering aimlessly around the ruins of l’manberg — is huddled beneath a single ratty blanket, surrounded by drowsy dogs. he’s got his arms around carli’s neck like she’s a stuffed animal, cheek smushed against her coarse gray fur. the dog lying across his long legs raises his head to stare at phil, long tongue lolling out of his mouth as he pants peacefully. 

phil feels a pang of guilt when he realizes the teenager is fully dressed beneath his blanket, meaning he’d likely come to the dogs for warmth rather than comfort. while he does have a house of sorts already build, it’s missing a few key elements still, such as walls on the sides that don’t butt up against the cliff face. the snowstorm came on suddenly, and ranboo, even less used to the harsh cold than phil, had probably panicked. the fact that he preferred to sleep with a literal pack of wolves rather than knock on techno and phil’s door is a little concerning, but, well, techno _does_ have a reputation. blood for the blood god and all that. 

ignoring the wolves that have begun to peel off from the pile and come over to investigate phil, he sets the buckets on the ground, and, on impulse, unclasps and shrugs off his cloak. careful not to step on any stray tails, he leans forward and gingerly drapes it over ranboo. the teen’s so fuckin’ tall it only reaches his mid calves, but it’s better than nothing. of course, two of the wolves pick that moment to begin snarling at each other over a scrap of venison, and ranboo wakes with a start. 

bits of straw are caught in his messy hair, and his rumpled suit jacket is covered in dog hair. when he notices phil, he pushes himself up on his elbows and clears his throat, awkward. “oh, mr. minecraft! uh. sorry, i—i didn’t think you’d—” he begins, and then notices the heavy woolen cloak covering him. his forehead furrows and he plucks at it, confused, then looks at phil, who’s just in a sweater. “did i borrow this?” he asks, slow, sounding puzzled. 

phil shakes his head.

ranboo hesitates, then holds up a handful of fabric. “do—do you want it back?” he offers.

“you can return it later, mate,” phil says. “you looked cold.”

“i’m really not,” ranboo says, reaching up, a little cross-eyed, to pull a piece of hay out of his bangs. “the dogs kept me warm.”

“why didn’t you come to the cabin when the storm got bad?” phil asks.

ranboo shrinks back into the pile of the hay, playing nervously with the fur-trimmed collar. “uh. didn’t seem like it was worth waking you guys up? it was okay, though! i really like dogs, so. dogs — yeah, dogs good. dogs good,” he finishes, almost to himself. as if to confirm the feeling is mutual, carli tips her head back and licks him. he winces, but pats her anyway as he dries his cheek with the cuff of his jacket. 

“so we’ll save dissecting why you think freezing to death is a better option than waking me and techno for a later date,” phil says, slow. ranboo flushes at that, staring hard at his lap. “in the meantime. how about you keep the cloak and give it back to me when you come over for breakfast?”

“oh, i have food at my place,” ranboo reassures him.

“i should hope so,” phil says. “look, mate, just come over around eight, yeah? you can bring the cloak back and i’ll have someone to chat with while i do the dishes.”

that coaxes a laugh out of the hybrid — softer and throatier than phil expected, but infectious, and despite his concern and the voices in his head whispering worry and care and protection, he finds himself smiling. “eight sharp, mate, got it?” he says, mock-stern. it’s meant as a joke — clearly, he thinks; anyone else would just roll their eyes at his tone — but ranboo stiffens and says, “yessir,” so quickly phil thinks he’s fucked up somehow, even if he can’t quite tell how just yet. 

he breaks the ice on the dogs’ water trough, portions the meat scraps into their bowls, and takes his leave, trying to ignore how ranboo’s gaze is like a branding iron on his back throughout the whole process. 

when phil returns, techno is sitting on the couch, lacing up his boots. he looks up when phil enters and frowns. “where’s your cloak?”

“gave it to ranboo,” phil says, distracted. “techno, the kid was sleeping in the dog kennel.”

techno grunts and ties a doubleknot, then stands and stamps his feet to settle them into the aging leather boots. “probably warmer in there than the shack he put up. he’s _so bad at building_ , phil.”

“when i said maybe he could look after the dogs i didn’t mean _that_ ,” phil says, weary. 

techno pauses, one arm in his coat sleeve, and looks at him with narrowed eyes. maybe it’d be intimidating to someone else — to ranboo — but phil knows techno’s _trying to figure out a puzzle_ face. “and what are you plannin on doing about it?”

phil rubs a hand over his face, feeling his fingertips catch on the stray patches of stubble he’d missed when shaving with ice water earlier. “well. for starters, invited him over for breakfast. maybe i can get him to explain why he’d rather freeze to death than knock on our door.”

techno raises an eyebrow and finishes buttoning his coat. “bruh. if he woke me in the middle of the night i’d murder him.”

phil drops his hands from his face and looks at techno, who, to his credit, looks abashed. “you wouldn’t.”

techno scuffs the floor. “i might,” he mutters.

“ranboo thinks you would.”

techno’s gaze flicks to phil’s face briefly, and when he says, “a little fear’s a good thing,” in a monotone voice, phil tries to tell himself he doesn’t mean a word of it. 

“he’s a _child_ ,” he tries.

techno’s gloved hands curl at his sides, fingers flexing around nothing, before he shakes them out; a tiny flick of nervous motion that only just catches phil’s notice. “so was tommy,” he says, brusquely, as he turns towards the door, and phil’s heart crumbles a little.

but techno pauses in the doorframe and says, after a long pause, “don’t let him eat the potato soup. savin’ that for my lunch,” before letting the door swing closed behind him. phil knows that’s as close to explicit permission as he’ll get. 

a bone deep weariness sets in as phil goes about making breakfast. sure, the kid had looked more peaceful than phil’s ever seen him, and the dogs hadn’t exactly seemed upset either, piling around him like he was a fellow pack member. but the scene is far, far too similar to another — months ago, now — another lanky, undernourished-looking kid curled under a single blanket somewhere a kid shouldn’t be forced to sleep. techno would probably say he’s projecting, and maybe so, but sue phil for being old-fashioned: kids should sleep in beds, not dog kennels. 

a vision of wilbur; sharp teeth showing in a conspiratorial grin, leaning back against the counter with his arms folded as he mercilessly teases phil about imprinting so quickly, and phil slams the knife down on the cutting board with so much force he nearly loses a fingertip. 

he goes and sits on the porch for a while, after that. frigid air nips at his exposed skin, but sunshine is pouring down, and despite only being in his shirtsleeves, he doesn’t want to go inside yet. so instead, he watches ranboo run around filling in creeper holes. the hybrid is underdressed, even with phil’s cloak draped around his shoulders for extra warmth. it’s very obviously not made for someone his height, and he looks ridiculous, like a kid playing dress-up. phil itches with the desire to call him over, have him put on something warmer. 

ranboo notices him and waves enthusiastically. 

phil waves back, but when he pulls his hand down, he realizes he’s trembling. 

it’s been months since wilbur — well, since _wilbur_ , but only a handful of weeks since techno’s attempted execution, and even less time since tommy had chosen sides and techno had nearly been forced to take on half the server single-handedly, and as much as he thought he’d come to terms with it, he’s still getting used to someone besides techno being around without it meaning a mad dash for his weapons. 

techno won’t say it outright, but phil thinks he’s dealing with something similar. when phil pinged him to say he was bringing ranboo back to the snow biome, the first and only thing he’d replied was _he’s not staying in my house._ phil hadn’t pressed the issue. 

ranboo seems to understand, as much as he can without knowing the exact details of what went down between techno and tommy. he only trades with the villagers in the basement or uses the enchanting table when techno is out, and he always leaves something behind as payment, be it a gold nugget, a few raw emeralds, or on one occasion, notable because it got an amused snort from techno, a messily tied bouquet of droopy wildflowers arranged in phil’s mug and carefully set in the middle of the table.

phil rolls his neck, wincing as the muscles twinge in protest, and sighs as he gets to his feet, trying not to think about how much easier simple acts like standing used to be. he can practically hear techno calling him an old man as he heads inside to finish preparing breakfast. 

he’s just finished ladling oatmeal, full of stewed apple chunks and prodigious amounts of cinnamon, into two bowls, when ranboo knocks. glancing at the clock on the wall, phil almost laughs — it’s hardly fifteen seconds after eight. 

“were you literally just waiting on the porch?” he asks, joking, when he opens the door.

ranboo goes red to the tips of his ears, and phil kicks himself mentally, because of course the kid’s the type to do that. from the moment phil invited him to stay, the hybrid’s been a fucking fountain of _i don’t want to impose_ and _if it’s no trouble_ and _i’ll pay you guys back_ , and it’d be a refreshing change after tommy if ranboo hadn’t so clearly been horribly earnest about all of it. 

“nevermind,” phil says hastily. “come on in!”

“thanks, thank you,” ranboo says. he knocks the snow off his boots — a gesture phil greatly appreciates — and gingerly steps inside. “oh — here’s your cape, by the way,” he says, holding it out with both hands.

“thanks.” phil looks it over quickly and unobtrusively as he takes it back. he’s pleased to note that the hem is free from mud, and makes a mental note of how ranboo trails a hand wistfully along the fur collar as he hands it over. might have to add making another cloak to his to-do list, if he can find enough blue dye for the yards of wool he’ll need for someone as tall as ranboo.

“hope you’re okay with oatmeal,” phil apologizes as he hangs up the cloak. “farm’s not doing so hot right now, and techno hasn’t gone hunting in a bit.” ranboo’s stomach growls, making him turn a darker shade of red, and phil laughs. “i’ll take that as a yes, then. have a seat, it’ll be ready in a mo’.”

ranboo slides onto a kitchen chair, looking around timidly. “this is a very nice house.”

“i didn’t build it, but i’m sure techno would appreciate the compliment.” phil sets a bowl in front of ranboo and a spoon beside it, then sits down with his own bowl across the table. 

ranboo brightens. “really? i don’t think i’ve talked to techno at all since, uh. well, since ever, honestly? i mean unless you count the connor hostage thing and even _that_ was like three sentences, tops.”

phil hums and passes him the cinnamon sugar. “sounds like techno. he’s not the chatty sort unless you get him going on something he’s actually into.”

“like what?” ranboo asks, around a mouthful of oats and apple, and phil can practically see him preparing to file the information away to make a note of later, because he’s sweet like that.

“anarchy, mythology, auto-farms. astronomy, lately. have you looked at the stars since you’ve been here? can see way more of them than you could’ve in l’manberg. techno explained it to me a bit ago. differences in light pollution or something.”

“i haven’t, but i’ll do that!” ranboo says, eager. “we used to stargaze from the hill behind eret’s castle, but you couldn’t see half the constellations because of all the lanterns in l’manberg.”

“we?” phil asks, curious, and immediately regrets asking when ranboo’s expression shifts into mildly nauseous guilt and he ducks his head. “sorry. sorry. your business, not mine.”

ranboo hunches his shoulders and stirs his oatmeal. “it’s okay. uh. me and tubbo, usually. sometimes niki would join us.”

phil nods but doesn’t push it further. they eat in silence for a minute or so, before phil takes a breath and begins, “look, about this morning—” 

“i’m _really_ sorry about that,” ranboo rushes. “i just. i haven’t finished my walls yet and i woke up last night and there was just like, half a foot of snow on top of my blanket and i kinda panicked? and then i was thinking about my pets and if they were okay, and that reminded me you’d said i should take care of the dogs, so i thought if i went to check on them it’d be okay if i just. stayed.”

phil stares at him.

“i. won’t do it again?” ranboo guesses aloud.

“...you do that a lot, don’t you?” is all that phil can muster, after a long moment. 

ranboo tilts his head, puzzled. 

“apologizing for shit you don’t need to apologize for.”

“sorry,” ranboo says mechanically, and then: “shit, sor — i mean. uh. i’ll just. be quiet.” he ducks his head, picking at a stray thread on his jacket cuff. 

phil shakes his head, torn between amusement and concern. he knows techno holds a certain amount of scorn for the hybrid — is pretty sure he’s referred to ranboo as a doormat before. but that gentle, eager-to-please nature is part of what makes phil worry for the kid. he’s easy to take advantage of. it’s the only reason phil isn’t bitter at him for being involved in techno’s execution.

“it’s fine,” he says, finally, and nudges ranboo’s bowl closer to him. “but if you need anything — firewood, food, building materials — come to us, mate. i don’t wanna find a ranboo icicle some morning just because you didn’t want to be impolite.” when ranboo doesn’t immediately reply, phil sighs and adds, “if you’re more comfortable bunking with the dogs, then of course you’re welcome to do that. but you wouldn’t be bothering us if you chose something different.” he pauses, then tries, “i’m glad you get along with the hound army, though,” and is rewarded with a tentative smile.

“i like most dogs,” ranboo says. “they’re—they’re soft and petting ‘em helps me, like, destress, i guess?” he lets out a shaky breath and shakes out the cuffs of his suit jacket. “dogs—yeah, dogs good. dogs good.” phil thinks about how much he seemed to appreciate the soft fur trim on phil’s cloak, and resolves to make him the softest fucking piece of clothing in the world. 

“so what constellations have you noticed here?” he asks, determined to get some conversation out of the hybrid.

ranboo perks up at that, and the rest of breakfast passes in a gentle hum of conversation. it’s nice, and he realizes he’s relaxing more than he has in a while. well. that’s not entirely true; he’s more relaxed than he usually is with anyone besides techno. 

the more ranboo gets into his topic, the more unconscious of his body he gets, until he’s sitting straight, not hunched over in a purposeful attempt to look small and non-threatening. and every so often — every few scattered sentences that loop and repeat and are full of hums and ums and repeated syllables — ranboo does _something_ that makes phil think of techno. an aborted hand gesture, tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves; a brief hand gesture that turns into awkwardly brushing his hair out of his eyes. tiny things, but familiar ones, so phil just smiles and lets ranboo chatter on. 

afterwards, when he’s washing the dishes and ranboo is hovering after his offer to help was turned down, there’s a knock at the door.

“that’s probably techno with the wood. get the door for him?” phil asks over his shoulder, elbow deep in dishwater. behind him, he hears ranboo hum assent and head for the door, eager to be useful. he smiles down at the plate he’s scrubbing. and sure, maybe _part_ of the warmth in his chest is residue guilt from earlier, but someone is moving behind him and he’s not strung tight as a drawn crossbow string. he could get used to this.

ranboo still hasn’t opened the door. frowning, phil reaches for a dishtowel to dry his hands, and turns to see what’s the matter. 

immediately, he realizes something is wrong. ranboo stands frozen by the small window that overlooks the porch, staring out at whoever knocked. his eyes are huge and his hand, holding back the thick drape, shakes badly. 

“ranboo?” phil asks, measured, already glancing around to see where he’s left his sword. “who is it?” his eyes settle on his weapon almost immediately, lying on the side table by the couch, where he’d been redoing the leather handle wrap last night. 

“um,” ranboo says, in a very small voice. “uh. well, it’s.” he laughs weakly. “it’s _tubbo_.”


	2. Chapter 2

“what?!” phil’s so surprised he doesn’t notice how violently ranboo flinches at his raised voice.

“phil,” ranboo says, “phil, i need to go. i need to go, i need to go, i need to—i need to go. he can’t see me here, he’ll—they’ll—” he swallows hard and looks a plea at phil, and phil remembers what techno had told him about the scene in the wreckage of the community house. quackity calling for another execution. the book the kid had navigated an active war zone for and begged techno to give him, had clutched to his chest so tightly when they gave it to him that someone would’ve had to break his fingers to release it from his grip. 

there’s no time for reassurances, so phil just says, curt, “go into one of the back rooms. he won’t see you.”

ranboo stays frozen, labored, shaky breaths escaping his chapped lips, and phil raises his voice a fraction and says, “ranboo.” when ranboo’s eyes jerk towards him, he softens his tone and says, “i _won’t_ let him see you. trust me.”

something unreadable flickers across the hybrid’s face, but he drops the curtain and takes a step back. then another. then he turns and practically flings himself through the doorway leading to the rest of the house — techno’s bedroom, the bathroom, the storage closet.

phil dries his hands mechanically, drops the dishtowel on the counter. another knock at the door sends the remnants of his soldier hindbrain into high alert, and he quickly picks up his sword, checks that the handle wrap is secure, and buckles the belt around his waist. his mind races. he could send ranboo to get technoblade — tell him to use the basement exit when he invites tubbo inside. but he has a gut feeling that if tubbo was intending violence, neither quackity nor fundy would’ve let him come alone. besides, tubbo angry, upset, or slighted has never been the type to knock politely and wait for a reply.

“c’mon, there’s literally smoke coming out the chimney, i know someone’s home,” tubbo’s muffled voice calls through the door. “i get it but i seriously just want to talk.” he stops abruptly when phil pulls the door open. his hand is still raised to knock again, loosely balled in a fist, but at the sight of phil it drops back to his side. “oh. hi, phil.”

for a moment, phil just stands and stares. the feeling is so viscerally familiar it jolts him back to a day that seems eons ago; coming into the kitchen to find an unfamiliar, dirt-smudged boy sitting at the kitchen table, happily munching on the horrible concoction that is tommy’s latest favorite lunchtime creation, and tommy himself, already nearly as tall as phil, sitting cross-legged on the tabletop rambling away.

“this is tubbo,” tommy had announced proudly, and tubbo gave a little wave. “he’s going to be my new brother.”

he’d been as wordless that day as he is now, staring at tubbo shifting from foot to foot on his front porch, face red from the cold, snow goggles pushed up onto his forehead. for a brief, heavenly moment, tubbo is the kid in the kitchen — a little taller, a little less baby fat, but the same twinkling brown eyes and sheepish smile. 

but the kid on the porch is the same kid who’d dragged techno from his house and attempted to execute him where phil could see. had ignored phil screaming himself hoarse and battering his fists bloody against barred windows. the voices grow from a whisper to a murmur. _traitor KILL HIM where’s techno get techno He’s tommy’s friend HE EXILED TOMMY he looks cold Make him tea Make him pay_ and he silences them with a quick shake of his head, subtle enough to pass as him getting an errant strand of hair out of his eyes. 

“don’t tell me you’re a door-to-door ankle monitor salesman now?” phil asks, voice heavy with sarcasm. _wow maturepog_ comes a sarcastic murmur, and he twitches like a dog dislodging a fly. it made tubbo flinch and it was intended to.

“uh, about that,” tubbo says awkwardly. “can i come in?”

phil puts an arm across the doorway and leans a hand on the frame. “not sure how techno would feel about that, mate.”

tubbo gestures at the treeline. “i passed him cutting wood on my way here. he looked like he’ll be busy for a bit.” he twists his hands in the pockets of his thick brown parka and hops from foot to foot again. “c’mon, phil, it’s frickin’ cold out here and i’ve been walking for ages. why’d he build his ender portal so goddamn far from here, anyways?”

“i imagine so he wouldn’t have people showing up on his doorstep trying to murder him,” phil can’t resist saying. tubbo deflates a little more, but doesn’t budge. he’s got that stubborn set to his jaw that means he has ever intention of remaining on the porch until snow’s begun to accumulate on his shoulders. 

it’s irritating. 

it’s familiar.

phil sighs and steps aside. “better hope techno doesn’t come back while you’re still around. and don’t look so pleased with yourself; one wrong move and i’m throwing you out on your arse.” when tubbo moves to step past phil, phil stops him with a palm against his chest. tubbo looks questioningly at him, but doesn’t seem particularly worried, which pisses off some deep-seated thing in phil. he ignores the voices insisting that _he tried to kill techno, he needs to know he can’t get away with that._ “your weapons stay out here.”

tubbo makes a face like he’s about to protest, but phil folds his arms. “if you’re just here to talk, you won’t need them anyways.”

“so it’s a truce?” tubbo begins to unbuckle his sword belt.

“i reckon.” phil watches with keen eyes as tubbo leans his sword and scabbard against the rough hewn plank wall of the cabin. “and the hatchet.” it’s a tiny thing, meant more for stripping twigs than anything else, but tubbo slips it out of its leather loop on his belt and sets it down wordlessly. “anything else on you?” tubbo shakes his head, brushing hair out of his eyes. “knives, harm pots?” another head shake. “...alright, come on in.”

tubbo looks around as he enters, pushing back the fur-trimmed hood of his parka, and phil fights back the urge to fold his arms over his chest, feeling oddly defensive of the place. his and techno’s mugs hang on hooks over the cutting board — his tin one, dented from countless years of being knocked around in his knapsack, beside techno’s massive, lop-sided pottery one. beside the couch, techno’s dog-eared novel lies facedown on the end table to save his place, pages rippled from snowflakes melting into the yellowed paper when he carries it around outside. 

the voices surge briefly, feeling upset and violated at tubbo being allowed to see anything of techno’s ever again. 

“nice place,” tubbo says. it seems earnest enough but the voices still bristle at it. phil tamps them down again. _he’s not a threat right now_ , he tells them, and they seem somewhat mollified. “saw the bee farm,” tubbo continues. “it looks real good. it’s hard to keep bees in cold biomes.”

phil knows it’s an obvious attempt to stroke his ego, but his shoulders loosen a bit anyways. he’s proud of that farm. it’d been hard to design a greenhouse build that could trap enough heat without being suffocating for whatever was inside. the final build is the result of many evenings spent in front of the fireplace, hunched over a pad of paper with a pencil, sketching and re-sketching design ideas and occasionally getting techno’s input. he lifts his chin a little. “it’s alright.”

“i miss my bees,” tubbo says quietly, looking down at the kitchen chair he’s nudging back and forth, and phil stiffens. but tubbo doesn’t even have the decency to look angry; just sad. phil thinks maybe he didn’t even mean to say that aloud. and he does feel bad about the bees, if he’s honest. “did you come here to discuss beekeeping with me, or was there something else?” he asks.

tubbo reaches up and pulls off his snow goggles. “came here to apologize.”

of all the possibilities of things tubbo could be here for, an apology had ranked low on the list. 

“i’m sorry,” he says, lifting his head and meeting phil’s gaze, “for what happened with technoblade. i don’t. forgive you. either of you. for what happened with l’manberg. but mob justice probably wasn’t the _best_ solution, and i should’ve handled it better.” 

“is that it?” phil says, past the lump in his throat.

tubbo shakes his head. “there’s some more, if you wanna hear it.” phil gestures for him to continue, and he combs his fingers through his hair; a nervous gesture he’s never quite grown out of. “i was ice fishing in snowchester the other day and something felt weird, and i couldn’t figure out what it was for _ages_ , but i finally did. i wasn’t constantly having to untangle my fishing line from old rebar and shit. i could just. fish. and i can _build_ there — i can build things and not have to worry about ‘preserving historical value’. i didn’t realize how much all that crap weighed on me until it was gone.

i know wilbur wrote you letters,” he says, and phil’s heart is in his throat. “i don’t know what he put in them or if he even wrote close to — close to the end. but i never asked for l’manberg, philza. he gave it to me, and i was so—so _proud_ , he was giving me this—this huge _thing_ we’d spent _months_ fighting for, and then. then he was gone, and all i had left of him was l’manberg.” he laughs, and it’s so humorless, so _grown-up_ phil feels a little sick. “tommy got a coat and i got a country. and i didn’t want it, but i couldn’t give up on it because it’d be like giving up on—” he takes a deep, shaky breath “—on wilbur, all over again. and i think. i think l’manberg _was_ wilbur, sort of like ghostbur is wilbur, except instead of being a—an echo of all the good memories, it’s all the worst bits of him. all the prickly, angry, hateful parts. and i don’t need l’manberg to remember him the way he used to be, before—well, before everything. i’m not going to thank you for what you and techno did, but i’d be lying if i said i wasn’t a tiny bit glad.”

phil stares at tubbo. something in tubbo’s eyes bleeds a deep weariness, and the fiercely intense joy of someone who has just recently relearned how to hope and is still waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under them. it’s a bitter reminder that tubbo’s been forced to shoulder responsibilities at an age when he should’ve still been a carefree child instead of fighting revolutions and serving as a spy and _running a godsdamned country_. 

(once, phil and techno built an empire, and when the fighting was over ( _when they’d grown restless_ ) — they had passed along governance to a council of trusted individuals, and left. and it had been him and techno again; just the two of them, with no one else to worry about. phil has commanded battalions, but has never been sixteen years old and secretary of state, or president of a country.)

_there hadn’t been a dream on that server, either_ , his voices remind him. they seem proud of tubbo.

“tubbo?” he says, and doesn’t realize he’s nearly gone speechless until his voice comes out soft and half-broken at the end. “you are full of surprises, mate.”

tubbo smiles, then; cheeky. “i try, big man, i try.” he looks down at his snow goggles and phil follows his gaze. his throat tightens a little more when he spots the copper detailing that is fundy’s trademark. “that’s just about it, then. reckon i should scram before techno gets back.”

“how’s tommy doing?” phil blurts out, before tubbo can turn to leave. it’s a question he wouldn’t dare to ask if technoblade was there, but. he can allow himself this small privilege.

tubbo’s face brightens, and the familiarity of it makes phil’s chest ache: mention tommy to tubbo and the kid lights p like a chunk of glowstone. tubbo’s got a lot to make up for, but at least they seem to be on their way to mending their friendship. “i think he’s gonna be okay,” tubbo says. “he’s tough, he’s made it through worse.”

“you would know,” phil says, and it’s not meant to be a dig — it really isn’t, but from the way tubbo’s eyes widen, hurt, it’s clearly taken as one.

“i’ve apologized for that,” tubbo says, soft and wary. “i’ve literally lost track of how many times.”

the lump in phil’s throat is painful and choking. “i know. i know. i’m glad you’re — i’m glad the two of you have made up.”

tubbo tilts his head, watching phil like he’s trying to decipher if he’s being made fun of or not. after a few moments, he just nods. “he’s been helping me out in snowchester, you know. i’m trying to talk him into making his new house there, just to stop him sleeping on my floor. he snores awfully.”

“so he’s — he’s doing okay?” the words slip out before phil can reel them in. 

“he’s,” tubbo begins, choosing his words with more care. “he’s better now. i think. he told me about staying here, you know, so i’m guessing you know about his nightmares?”

one night, mere days after techno had discovered tommy hiding in his basement and pinged phil, annoyed and out of his depth, phil had been jarred awake by techno bellowing for him. he’d rushed downstairs, sword in hand, to find techno backed into the doorway of tommy’s room, holding a bleeding hand. tommy screamed at them until they left the room and phil got the full story from techno: tommy, thrashing in the throes of a nightmare, techno, leaning over him to wake him, and the kitchen knife tommy had stolen and stashed beneath his pillow, and lashed out with, half-awake. 

phil knows about the nightmares. he nods. 

“it’s rough,” tubbo says. “but i — i try to stick around, y’know. so he doesn’t have to wake up alone.”

“he doesn’t like being touched during them,” phil says, bleak; a vague attempt at being helpful. 

tubbo laughs and runs fingers through his hair, lifting shaggy bangs in much need of a trim off his forehead. it gives phil a better view of the raised, reddened scarring that covers the left side of his face, and also reveals a greenish yellow bruise discoloring his temple. “found that out the hard way. he kicks like a mule.”

phil snorts at that. it’s not exactly cheerful, but tubbo’s mouth still quirks up in a smile that only carries a hint of bitterness. he twists his snow goggles in his hands again. “should probably get going, before techno gets back,” he says, and phil nods.

when tubbo turns towards the door, phil asks, “look after him?”

tubbo glances back over his shoulder and smiles faintly. “of course, big man.” he pauses, hand on the doorknob, and turns back. “hey, you haven’t seen ranboo around, have you?”

somewhere in the house, something clatters to the floor, making phil jump. 

“probably one of techno’s dogs,” phil says, clutching at the first excuse for the sound he can think of. “they make a fuckin’ mess.”

“okay,” tubbo says, slowly. “i don’t think he’d come here — with the snow and all, y’know — but if you see him, send him over to snowchester. we’ve—” he pauses. “we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“will do,” phil says, heart in his throat. “goodbye, tubbo.”

“bye, phil,” tubbo says. the door swings closed behind him. 

when he goes to find ranboo, he finds him in the storage closet, huddled between two chests with one hand fisted in his hair, rocking back and forth with a hand stuffed into his mouth and blood on his face. _shit._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for panic attacks and mentioned self-injurious stims.

phil kneels in front of ranboo, who watches him, eyes wide and terrified, pupils nearly slits. “ranboo,” he says, very softly. “mate. tubbo’s gone, okay?”

a muffled sob escapes the kid, and blood — red shifting oddly purple — trickles down his knuckles as his jaw twitches visibly. phil winces in sympathy and reaches out instinctively to pull his hand away from his mouth, but freezes with his hand in midair at a memory — tommy, sitting bolt upright in bed, flailing and screeching when phil tried to hug him. “ranboo?”

ranboo doesn’t reply, but his eyes flick towards phil’s face briefly. his chest heaves and nostrils flare, but he’s still silent, obviously trying to remain quiet even though every inch of his lanky form is trembling from the effort.

“may i take your hand?” phil asks, gentle. there’s no reply, but ranboo doesn’t flinch away when phil reaches out again and carefully, like he’s gathering cobwebs, wraps his hand around ranboo’s wrist and pulls it away from his mouth. the meaty part of his hand, beneath his thumb, has gone white and has visible teeth marks with blood welling up. phil’s already begun mentally cataloguing what he’ll need to take care of it when ranboo finally makes a noise.

it catches him off guard — high and keening and harsh, like it’s scraped and torn itself through ranboo’s vocal cords. it’s thoroughly enderman, and phil rocks back on his heels, caught off guard. the kid shuts his mouth so fast after the noise escapes that his teeth clack together audibly. he looks terrified and miserable, and phil curses himself for having reacted visibly. _of course_ ranboo would be trying to avoid making upset enderman noises. how many times must people have reacted badly to him doing that? how many times has he seen endermen killed right after making those exact same noises? hell, how often has he seen _phil_ kill endermen after hearing that?

ranboo tries to pull his arm away, so phil lets him. the hybrid immediately cradles his hand to his chest and curls in on himself, bony knees drawn up. “tubbo,” he gasps.

“tubbo’s gone,” phil reassures.

“they’re going to kill me,” ranboo says, like the sentence has been ripped raw from his chest like an enderpearl. he drags in a shuddering breath and says, “i—i betrayed them, i fucked up _so bad_ , he’s _going to kill me_.”

phil reaches out again, and the motion is ingrained — calming a distressed child by pulling them into a hug — except ranboo flinches back so violently he whimpers in pain when his shoulderblades strike the stone wall.

“hey, buddy,” phil says. “i’m not gonna hurt you, okay?” like befriending a wild wolf. “tubbo’s not here anymore. he’s gone, he left. you’re safe here. you know where we are?”

the sound ranboo makes doesn’t quite make it past his tightly pressed lips. that’s okay. techno has mornings where he responds to phil’s cheerful greetings with grunts, and goes about his daily tasks in silence. sometimes in the evening, he’ll come sit beside phil when phil’s reading in front of the fire, dropping heavily onto the couch beside him and headbutting his shoulder until he puts his book down, letting techno lean against him, and shushes him when he mumbles apologies for not talking.

“that’s okay, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.” phil nods at ranboo’s injured hand. “i’d like to wrap that up if that’s okay with you. be right back, yeah? just gonna grab some bandages and a healing pot, ‘kay mate?” he’s not expecting a response, but ranboo shifts a little and nods.

phil suppresses a groan as he plants his palms on his thighs to lever himself up, and hurries to the kitchen. the first aid kit is stowed in one of the tiny cabinets over the sink (a precaution after too many potato peeling mishaps) and he rummages through techno’s many horribly organized chests for a healing potion. finding none, he ransacks their pantry for the necessary ingredients. luckily for ranboo, techno is hyper-vigilant about replenishing their stash of potion ingredients on a regular basis, and it only takes a few minutes for phil’s practiced hands to throw together a simple healing potion. he eyeballs the measurements and then watches the mixture bubble and thicken as he absently cleans his hands off on a kitchen towel. when he glances down to put the towel aside, he notices the smudges of blood ranboo had left on his hands, and sighs.

“sorry.” phil turns at the hoarse apology.

ranboo’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. if he stood up straight, his head would brush the door lintel, but his shoulders are perpetually hunched. kid probably needs a chiropractor with posture that horrible. he’s nearly seven feet tall, but it’s difficult to tell, the way he folds himself into origami every time someone so much as glances at him.

“jeez, you don’t need to — do you wanna sit down? you look like you’re gonna topple over.” he pulls a chair back from the table, and ranboo sheepishly slinks over and sinks into it. it’s a dad move so classic phil gets hit with a wave of familiarity — the alternative to sitting is to leave him looking like an idiot, and none of his friends have ever been mean enough to leave him hanging. thus: ranboo is no longer of collapsing and concussing himself. satisfied, phil folds his arms and leans a hip against the table, keeping half his attention on the brewing stand in case it begins to boil over, but ready to listen patiently if ranboo feels like talking.

as it turns out, he very much doesn’t. he keeps his gaze fixed firmly downwards, and after a moment or so of phil watching him, a deep red blush starts to creep up his ears. got it. staring bad. phil turns back to the brewing stand and fiddles with the spigot, and pretends not to hear ranboo’s relieved sigh.

“d’you want something to drink?” he asks, after the silence has dragged on enough that ranboo’s begun to shift uncomfortably. the potion’s nearly done, and just beginning to flow sluggishly into the potion bottle settled beneath the spout.

“uh, milk, if that’s okay?”

“wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t,” phil reassures him. he fills a glass from the jug in the icebox and sets it in front of ranboo, accepts his thanks with a nod. “can you even drink water, by the way?”

“i can, it just makes my throat burn.” he takes a sip, and then his eyes widen and he finishes the glass in record time, apparently realizing how thirsty he was. his knuckles are nearly white on the glass.

by the time he’s finished, phil’s sitting down at the table with the healing potion. he gestures, and ranboo hesitantly angles himself towards phil, extending his arm. he’s trembling so badly he has to stabilize his elbow on the edge of the table, and phil frowns, concerned, as he digs through the first aid kit for a clean cloth.

ranboo must interpret the expression as annoyance, because he hastily says, “seriously, i’m really sorry about this. i’m not usually this much trouble. you don’t need to waste a potion on me.”

“ranboo,” phil begins, in his sternest voice. ranboo shrinks away, ears pinning back against his messy hair, and phil mentally smacks himself. ranboo’s not techno, or wilbur, or tommy — _definitely_ not like tommy — and phil can’t expect what would work on _them_ to work on _him_. so he softens his voice. “it’s not a waste, i promise.” ranboo doesn’t look convinced, so he continues, “you know how obsessively techno farms ingredients, right? i know you’ve helped him carry armfuls of netherwart back from the portal.” a faint smile flickers across ranboo’s face at the memory of the afternoon, which is encouraging. “seriously, mate, we’ve got stacks upon stacks of this shit. don’t worry about it.”

“okay,” ranboo says, soft, ducking his head, and phil turns his attention to the teen’s hand.

he winces when he sees the bite marks. the hybrid’s sharp teeth have done a fair bit more damage than blunt human teeth would have, and what could’ve been just bad bruises is instead punctured, ragged-edged flesh, blood still welling up sluggishly and pooling on ranboo’s dark skin. dried patches of the blood are only visible as faint sheens of iridescent purple on skin so black it’s blue-ish. using a damp cloth is out of the question for phil, even though ranboo would probably let it happen, so he settles for wrapping the cloth around his index finger and gently wiping away what blood he can without directly touching the wounds themselves.

ranboo begins bouncing his knee. the residual vibration travels into phil, and its familiarity is pleasant; not one of phil’s own tics, but one he’d gotten used to with tommy part of his life. and if he’s sitting on the couch between tommy _and_ techno, well. it’s a wonder the couch doesn’t move clear across the room.

a floorboard suddenly squeaks, loud in the still room. “ _fuck_ ,” ranboo says, sounding mortified. “i’m sorry, i’ll—yeah, that’s annoying, i’ll stop, sorry.” confused, phil looks down and sees ranboo digging his claws into his own thigh, pressing down like he’s trying to keep it from moving. his knee bounces again; a sad little jerk, and he hums for a fraction of a second, high and thready and distressed.

phil’s chest tightens with sympathy. he sets aside the bloody cloth and carefully lays ranboo’s hand down on the table. “you know, techno does something similar,” he says, praying to the gods techno won’t bite his head off for divulging personal information. “it’s a little different — he taps on things, mostly.” phil laughs and shakes his head. “used to drive me absolutely nuts when we first started working together, to be honest. but y’know, it was alright, because it helped him focus, get out bad vibes, took his mind off things—”

“like. like the voices?” ranboo asks, so quietly it’d almost be ridiculous coming from a body that tall, if the hybrid wasn’t so obviously trying to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. he’s gnawing on his lip and picking at the ragged cuticle on the thumb of his good hand. it’s going to tear and bleed, and phil’s own fingers twitch, wanting to reach out before the kid hurts himself — but phil quashes that feeling. best to lose small battles but win the war.

“i think it helps with the voices too, yeah.” he spreads the thick, congealing potion expertly across the bite wound and reaches for the bandages. “i think i remember him telling me more about it a while ago, back in — i’m guessing he hasn’t told you about the antarctic empire?”

ranboo looks up, eyes wide, and shakes his head.

phil smiles, fond. “you should get him to tell you about it sometime.” he finishes wrapping ranboo’s hand and ties a neat knot at the inside of ranboo’s wrist.

“i wouldn’t want to bother him,” ranboo says under his breath.”

phil leans back in his chair. “you know he doesn’t actually mind you being here, right? if he had a problem with you, he would’ve just given me a flat-out no when i asked if you could stay. he thinks you’re chill. you don’t steal shit from him, you don’t break my farms. you’re literally a model houseguest.”

“you’re just saying that because you had tommy as a guest,” ranboo shoots back, and immediately has obvious regrets. his eyes go huge, his ears go back, and he’s already opening his mouth to apologize, when phil cuts him off by laughing. it’s more a wheeze by the end, but ranboo’s mouth has quirked up at the corners in a shy smile, so it was worth it.

“fair point. but — actually, can i be serious?” he asks.

“yeah, of course, i mean, it’s...your house,” ranboo says, gesturing vaguely, as if that statement makes any amount of sense. he still looks wary, but far, far more relaxed than before, thank prime.

“pretend i’m making sincere eye contact, okay?” that prompts a genuine laugh, and phil smiles before continuing. “you don’t need to make yourself miserable trying to keep techno and i happy. look, when things get bad and i start slipping, i made it a game to hum every song i can remember, and it helps me feel better. it drives techno fucking _insane_ , but he knows it helps me, so he lets me do it anyways, because we’re friends. and if bouncing your knee, or — or carrying grass blocks around—” ranboo goes bright red “—or flapping your hands helps you calm down, well, we’d be pretty shit friends if we were annoyed by that, wouldn’t we?”

ranboo’s mouth is hanging open, and phil has a fleeting, nonsensical thought of _i’ve gone and broken him_. “oh shit,” phil says. _ranboo.exe has stopped working_ a voice says wryly, and wholly unhelpfully. “are you alright? i’m sorry if that was like. overstepping, somehow, or—”

“i—you’re— _friends_?” ranboo asks, finally, sounding utterly lost.

phil breaths out and wonders why he gravitates towards kids like this. “uh, yes?”

“ _why_?” ranboo blurts out, and he sounds so desperate, so confused that something in phil’s chest crumbles just a little more. “i’m—i can’t remember anything, i’m basically useless, i just make things harder for people and i can’t fix anything and—” his breathing hitches in his chest and he begins to rock back and forth in obvious distress.

shit. this is going wrong so, so fast. “mate, you’re panicking—fuck, try and breath, ranboo,” phil says, a little frantic.

ranboo shakes his head violently, gasps out, “i—i can’t—i—help, i can’t—i can’t _breathe_.” he looks at phil and his eyes are deep purple slits swimming in magenta, tears welling at the corners of his eyes, and he’s clutching himself like he’ll explode into shrapnel if he doesn’t, rocking so hard the chair creaks under him.

“ranboo!” phil reaches out, feeling helpless — he doesn’t want to touch without permission; doesn’t want the kid flinching away from him again — but he’s useless like this, he’s

 _sitting across from a much younger techno, talking to him and forcing his voice to stay even and calm, because the kid’s hearing voices but they’re_ so very different _from the ones phil hears: these demand blood and payment and atonement and techno is so_ young _, barely into his teen years, hitting the side of his head with the heel of his palm and shouting incoherently and phil can’t do anything besides talk, talk, talk; talk and try to keep the fear from his voice, and he’s not sure it even helps, and he’s_

_hovering at tommy’s bedside, gently moving the covers back to check on the burns beneath the bandages he’d helped wrap around the kid’s scrawny forearms, and then tommy wakes and is screaming at him to get away before he’s even fully awake, screaming “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU, BITCH, TOUCH ME AGAIN I FUCKING DARE YOU” and techno’s in the doorway, sword to hand, blinking at phil, who holds his hands up and takes a step backwards and_

_steps forward and lets wilbur collapse against him, his son’s shaking hands grasping at the front of phil’s haori, the deadweight of him dragging them both to the rocky ground as wil’s legs give way beneath him; curling over wil’s body as a seemingly endless chain of explosions goes off, and the silent, half-deafened moments after when his ears are bleeding because he’d pressed his palms over wil’s ears instead of his own, and his hard-won elytra are charred and drooping and ruined/useless around himself and his son. wil’s body dissolves into particles and phil is left with nothing to even bury: just a diamond sword dripping with his own child’s blood and the bone-deep certainty that wilbur won’t respawn safe, and empty, empty arms._

he comes back to himself with a jolt and realizes he’s shaking. only a few seconds must have passed. ranboo’s eyes are screwed shut and he’s still rocking himself, arms clutched so tightly around his slim midsection phil thinks he hears ribs creak. tears are rolling down his cheeks, but in place of regular tear tracks they leave reddened, tender looking skin, and phil is horrified to realize blisters are starting to form.

he itches to wipe them away — _like he used to do when tubbo came to him with a skinned knee or a nose unintentionally bloodied during play_ — but that would just spread the water around. instead, he gets up — tries to ignore how ranboo cowers away from him at the abrupt movement— grabs a clean dish towel, and sits again, extending it to ranboo.

“ranboo,” he says, as soft as possible while still being able to be heard over the hybrid’s crying and the chair creaking. “here, take this.”

thank prime, ranboo actually opens his eyes — phil hisses at the sight of his sclera, red and inflamed — but he stares at the towel with no recognition in his eyes. fuck.

okay.

okay.

“i’m going to hold your hand.” phil reaches out, palm up, and ranboo sniffles, then puts his hand in phil’s quickly, like he’s doing it before he can think better of it. he makes shushing noises; puts the towel in ranboo’s hand and brings ranboo’s hand up to hold the cloth against his own face, pressed just below his lower lashline so the tears absorb into the thick, knitted towel. he squeezes ranboo’s wrist to make sure he gets he’s meant to hold it there, and lets go; lets ranboo track his hand as he returns it to his own lap.

over the folds of the towel, ranboo’s mismatched eyes stare at him in blatant, heartbreaking confusion. still brimming with tears, but at least the confusion seems to be outpacing the panic.

“you don’t make things harder for people,” phil says, because he doesn’t know what else _to_ say. “if someone tells you that or lets you think it, they’re lying, and a piece of shit to boot. and you’re not useless. d’you remember when you helped techno get totems?” he waits for a response, and after a moment, gets a shaky nod. “he told me if it had just been him he would’ve maybe been able to clear one mansion, tops; that you really helped out. you’ve put in hours of work helping me with the farms—”

“i like the turtles,” ranboo interrupts, soft and hoarse, voice ragged.

phil holds his breath, but that’s the end of it. so he continues. “and nobody asked you to fill in creeper holes — you just decided to do that all on your own. do you know, techno keeps the axe you made him here, because he’s worried he’ll lose it during respawn?”

“it’s — i’m not good at enchanting,” ranboo murmurs.

“technoblade didn’t think that. and he knows his weapons.”

ranboo’s still rocking, but it’s...slower, now. deeper. he’s scooted forward so he can lean back more, and it seems to be calming him, now, rather than being an expression of distress. techno, earlier in their friendship, had explained it as similar to the way a baby might be rocked to sleep.

“you said you feel like you can’t fix anything,” phil says, and ranboo tenses. a deep breath. he can do this. “there are so, so many things i’ve done — i’ve had to do — that i regret. and. and sometimes i get a little too into my own head, and techno has to pull me out of it, and you know what he tells me?”

ranboo shakes his head.

“‘it’s okay if you can’t fix everything’. sometimes things _can’t_ be fixed, and sometimes you’re just. not the one meant to fix them. bad things happen, but not being able to stop them doesn’t make you bad,” phil says, firm as he can muster, because he’s always been a staunch believe in the philosophy of faking it till you make it, and maybe if he can make ranboo believe it, maybe. well. “you’re not bad,” he repeats hollowly.

ranboo is staring at him.

“you’re not,” he repeats, because he doesn’t know what the kid is waiting for.

“phil?” ranboo asks, voice wrecked and staticky around the edges.

“yeah?” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say; shit fucking father he is, he doesn’t know what to say.

ranboo nervously picks at the stitches of the knit dish towel, rocking now slowed to an almost unnoticeable swaying. “is—are,” he takes a deep breath and asks, “can i hug you?”

and it’s so, so far from what phil is expecting that for a moment he just stares at the ender hybrid, and ranboo flinches and is already shaking his head; “it’s okay, it’s — you don’t have to, i was just asking.”

“mate,” phil says, and ranboo freezes. “of _course_ you can. d’you even have to _ask_? like—”

ranboo’s eyes well up with tears and phil braces himself, but he thinks, somehow, nothing could’ve prepared him for ranboo leaning forward and wrapping long hugs around him in the tightest hug phil’s had in ages.

“ _oh_ ,” he breathes, against the kid’s messy, two-tone hair, realizing maybe he needed this as much as ranboo did. the last hug he’d gotten had been from techno, the pair of them standing over the pool of blood where wilbur had been.

it’s an awkward position; both of them leaning off their chairs to meet in the middle. ranboo makes an unhappy noise when phil pulls away briefly to scoot his chair closer, but quiets when phil settles back into the embrace. and when phil squeezes a little tighter experimentally, the hybrid practically burrows into his grasp. looks like he’s going to be here for a while.

the clock on the wall ticks away. carefully, he rubs his palm up and down the length of ranboo’s back, and is rewarded by a muffled but contented _vroop_ , quickly stifled against his chest. he suppresses a sigh. if it were any other mob hybrid phil knew — techno, or even sam — he’d poke gentle fun at them for the noises they make when they’re not concerned with who hears; the way techno snuffles gently in his sleep or snorts when frustrated with something, or sam hissing back when he’s startled by a creeper. but not ranboo. not when his hand is still bloody from him preferring to use it as a makeshift gag rather than let phil hear him making enderman vocalizations.

the clock ticks along patiently. through the kitchen window — propped open for fresh air despite the cold; neither phil nor techno mind wearing their jackets indoors — he hears carl munching away on a haybale, and more distantly, the cows in ranboo’s fenced off little cow farm bellowing at their calves. ranboo’s breathing evens out as phil rubs his back.

eventually, phil shifts and something in his shoulder crunches loudly. it startles a laugh out of both of them, and ranboo pulls away smiling even as he dabs gingerly at the tear tracks on his cheeks. phil leans back with a loud groan and a “fuck _me_ , i’m old.” his lower back protests further as he twists, a series of cracks and pops that sound disturbing even to him. ranboo makes a face.

“enjoy youth while you can,” phil tells him.

ranboo laughs.

with apparently an innate sense of dramatic timing, techno picks that moment to boot the door open — ranboo jumps and phil’s hand flies automatically to his hip, even though he’s not wearing a sword — and trudge inside to drop an armful of firewood by the fireplace. glancing at ranboo, who is watching techno wide-eyed as he methodically stacks snow-dusted lugs atop the wrought iron rack, phil wonders what ranboo sees. techno during doomsday, laughing and roaring mocking threats as he chases down sapnap, as tnt rains from the sky, blood only darker splotches of red on his crimson cloak, and the air full of the horrible hollow whistling of withers?

or techno as he is right now, in the pale blue quilted coat phil had stitched for him; his hair gathered in a messy bun at the nape of his neck, eyelids droopy in the way phil can tell means he’s yearning for a mid-morning nap, snow dusted across the pale fur edging the shoulders of his coat. phil realizes his hands have curled into loose fists, and forces himself to relax, subtly shaking them out.

techno turns to look at the pair of them; he glances at phil and looks more intently at ranboo, and phil knows he’s noticing the blistered cheeks, the healing potion and first aid kit on the table, the way their chairs are angled towards each other, knees almost brushing. he raises an eyebrow. “i miss somethin’?”

“nope,” phil says.

techno, graciously, just grunts and heads for the bedroom to change into dry clothes, and ranboo sighs in relief. phil nudges the healing potion towards him. “should probably rub some of that on your face. it looks painful.”

ranboo hums and takes the potion; he hardly glances up when phil touches his shoulder and says, “gonna go ask techno something, back in a minute,” just makes a sleepy noise and tips some of the thick potion out onto his fingertips.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter this time, but hey, you guys are getting 5 chapters instead of 4 apparently!

he finds techno in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed as he strips off his wet work trousers and drapes them over the towel rack. 

techno glances at him when he leans in the doorway. “you hurt?” 

phil shakes his head and watches techno pull on his comfy clothes; a loose white blouse and a warm pair of fawn trousers that bear both the decorative, careful stitches of phil’s mending, and techno’s haphazard whipstitch. pale skin and paler scars vanish beneath clothing, and techno stands and stretches, digs his knuckles into the small of his back, right where phil knows the strain of swinging an axe sits hard and heavy in knotted muscles. “what happened to ranboo?”

“he had a panic attack.”

techno raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “you needed a healin’ pot for a. panic attack.”

“ender hybrid, remember,” phil says, and techno’s brow furrows, then clears in understanding.

“he was cryin’?”

“yeah,” phil admits. “a lot,” and passes a hand over his face, wearily. 

techno looks at him, expression unreadable. “phil.”

“yes?” phil says. his inability to read techno’s expression no longer makes him nervous, but it’s still a little aggravating at times.

“ _phil_ ,” techno drawls. “is him campin’ in my backyard not enough for you?”

“look, at least until spring,” phil says, ignoring the fact that they’ve slipped into an entirely unspoken argument.

techno freezes, for just a split second, then snorts and shakes his head. it’s a familiar tic, and phil, curious, pushes away from the doorframe and asks, “what’re they saying?”

“they’re callin’ you dadza,” techno says.

“he’s quiet,” phil says, ticking off ranboo’s points on his fingers. “he’s willing to help with chores and such. and this might sound kinda awful but his memory is so bad he won’t be any sort of, security risk, or whatever you’re worried about.”

“that it?” techno asks dryly.

“ _and_ quackity hates his guts.” techno’s eyes flare dark, and phil smiles, satisfied. “he’d probably be pissed as fuck if he found out we were helping ranboo.”

techno lets out a reluctant huff. “are you done?” it’s monotone, as most things techno says are, but phil knows there’s no actual impatience or annoyance in the words, and so encouraged, he gives his final point.

“admit it, techno, he’s grown on you.” techno opens his mouth to protest but phil cuts him off. “i saw your face when he gave you that axe. he’s a sweet kid, wouldn’t hurt a fly intentionally, and he’s falling all over himself trying to keep us both happy because he thinks we’ll kick him out on his arse the second he fucks up. so he’s a little weird. we all are. but you can’t possibly look at him and tell me he’s a danger to us.”

techno groans, scrubs his hands over his reddening face, and peeks between his fingers at phil. “you realize he’s gonna be another liability to worry about?”

“what’s one more?” phil says, and immediately knows he’s said it too lightly to give justice to techno’s very real concern, given the events of the past month; the butcher army leveraging first carl and then _phil_ — which is where they _really_ fucked up, something quackity learned fairly quickly — as a way to ensure techno’s cooperation on the trip back to l’manberg and his own execution, and it hadn’t been entirely unexpected but was still a sickening surprise, the knowledge that people they used to call their friends — that phil had used to call _family_ — would sink that low.

 _fundy’s ears flattened back against his head, teeth a little more noticable, a little sharper, as he calls phil_ grandpa _, and prime, phil hasn’t heard that in so long it feels like a physical blow, the fact that fundy’s pulling it out_ now, _when there’s a sword pointed carelessly at his throat and he’s helpless to stop tubbo from taking techno’s compass._

a calloused hand grips just above his elbow, grounding him, and he covers it with his own fingers, automatically. 

“phil,” techno says, and it’s soft, the way his voice always gets when he realizes phil’s gotten too far into his own head. “if you’re doin’ this because of tommy—”

“i’m really not,” phil says, far to soft and raw for techno — techno, techno who knows him better than anyone — to believe him. but he thinks, vaguely, that’s not the point. “ranboo deserves—” he clears his throat “—he’s a good kid, and he _deserves_ a second chance. he won’t get it in l’manberg, not from quackity and his lot. he’s just a kid,” he says, and does not think about the other children he knows.

techno scans his features, brow furrowed and tusks jutting out a little as he pushes his lower lip out in thought. then he nods, slow. “okay, phil. okay.”

“plus, you’ve got carl; don’t begrudge me ranboo,” phil says weakly, in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

it partially works, because techno snorts and releases his arm, says, mild, “don’t think the two are comparable.” he rubs the bridge of his noise and squints like he’s got a headache coming on. “i don’t want another tommy, phil.”

“he won’t be,” phil promises, and even though it’s a promise made on ranboo’s behalf, he feels sure in making it. 

techno grunts, then leans down and bumps his forehead lightly against phil’s. phil lets him, eyes flickering shut out of pure habit at the familiar gesture, and he feels his shoulders drop as the tension bleeds from him. techno rumbles deep in his throat — not quite a purr, but his equivalent; a satisfied noise nonetheless. phil’s too weary to be humiliated by it, and too used to it to take issue. so instead, he just follows techno into the main room, where ranboo is still hunched over on his chair. 

ranboo looks up as they enter the room. his eyes are huge and his fingers have curled into his cuffs, picking at loose threads on the hem. phil is relieved to see that the skin under his eyes has healed shiny and new; pinkish-gray on the pale side of his face and polished obsidian black on the other. “h-hi, technoblade.”

“ranboo,” techno rumbles, and pauses, looking over the scrawny hybrid. phil hovers at his shoulder, anxious, but he knows he can’t prod techno into this — whatever happens has to be techno’s choice. so he settles for giving ranboo a reassuring smile. 

“am. am i in trouble or something?” ranboo asks, with a nervous laugh.

“not at all,” phil assures him. “techno had something he wanted to say.” techno grunts, unhelpful, so phil not so subtle elbows him in the small of his back. techno turns and glares at him and phil jerks his chin at ranboo. 

techno rolls his eyes, but turns back to the teenager. “ _philza_ ,” he drawls, “wants you to move in. _just_ until the spring thaw, though, so don’t get any ideas about this being a long-term thing. apparently me havin’ a kid die in my backyard would be ‘bad optics’.”

ranboo freezes. “what?”

“i’m not gonna beg you to stay, bruh, if you don’t wanna just say so and i’ll — i dunno, i’ll nail some more boards on your shed so phil can’t tell at me for not tryin’ when you die of frostbite.”

ranboo clutches his book to his chest. “i don’t—i don’t want to be a bother.”

“i’ve had mice that were louder houseguests,” techno says dryly, and heads to the sink, apparently having decided his part in the conversation is over, olive branch extended. 

phil glares at his back and takes over. “we really wouldn’t mind you staying here,” he says, gentling his voice and trying to ignore how ranboo looks simultaneously overwhelmed and hopeful and terrified. “there’s still a good four or five months of winter to go, and this was just the first proper snowstorm; there’ll be worse ones. i know you’ve got plans for your place, but it’s kinda far from the house and if you get snowed in or something happens, techno and i might not be immediately able to get to you.”

“i don’t have like. anything to pay you guys back with,” ranboo says. “i can do chores if you want? i don’t know, i don’t really have anything yet, i’m sorry.” 

“i mean, the fences around here _could_ use some mendin’,” techno says, bland.

ranboo latches onto that eagerly, whirling to face techno. “i could do that!” he says, excited. “i mean. i don’t know _how_ but if you show me i can do it, i pick up things pretty quick if i remember to write down the instructions.”

“ranboo,” phil says, suppressing the voices that are beginning to perk up in interest at the thought of favors owed. “you don’t owe us anything.”

a nervous laugh. “i really do though? like.” he gestures at the half-used healing pot, his face, waggles the fingers of his bandaged hand. “for this whole morning, and me going all weird on you. _and_ you guys are letting me live in your backyard, that’s kinda a big deal.”

“look, kid,” techno says, and ranboo hunches his shoulders as techno moves around him, but techno just gives him a mild look. “if i’d disagreed with that decision i just woulda told phil no, absolutely not, this is my land and i don’t want some teenager interfering with my view.” he pauses dramatically. “notice, ranboo, notice that that did not happen; i did not in fact say that. as a matter of fact i recall sayin’, ‘okay phil, that’s fine by me, that ranboo kid is kinda alright’. so if you wanna stay here that’s fine, if you don’t wanna, that’s fine too, but no one’s askin’ you to perform child labor and unless somethin’ drastic changes in the next five seconds that’s not gonna change.”

“look,” phil says, “why don’t you go pack, and say, after lunch, i’ll come over and help you carry your shit back here, yeah?”

“okay,” ranboo says. he hesitates in the doorframe. “can i. i have. can my pets come too? they won’t be any trouble and i’ll take care of them and feed them, you won’t have to do anything,” he says in a rush, and phil’s heart melts. then ices over a little at the thought that ranboo had thought they’d make him abandon his beloved pets. 

“one of us’ll be by later to help you herd them over,” phil offers, and ranboo’s face lights up.

“thank you!” he says, bounces on his toes a little, and then leaves. 

the door closes behind him. phil drags a hand down his face and says, “shit.”

“dadza,” techno says pointedly, and leaves the room with his glass of water, leaving phil to clean up the first aid things spread across the table. history repeating itself, he thinks wryly; another traumatized child in techno’s house and phil trying to pick up the pieces. 

he’s had decades of life experience, yet still flounders when kids look at him with expectation in their eyes, like just because he’s an adult he’ll automatically be able to make things better. it’s a little unexpected, honestly. techno had never had that impulse — young piglins learn very quickly to be self-sufficient, and hybrids are no different. wilbur grew out of that illusion quickly. tommy learned the hard way how very, very fallible adults are.

ranboo, as far as phil knew, didn’t have any adult figures in his life to let him down or disappoint him, which is at once relieving and horrifying, because it means phil and techno are, apparently, the benchmark here.

terrifying.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all done! this is the longest thing i've ever written, and i'd love seeing y'alls' comments on it, even if its just "<3" but also i get leaving comments is scary sometimes so please don't feel bad if you don't!

they’d planned to give him the spare cot in the loft — (where tommy had slept) — but phil catches ranboo looking with trepidation at the ladder and clutching a tiny, black-and-white mottled ball of fur to his chest. 

“oh, shit — you’re not scared of heights, are you?” he asks, dumping an armful of thick woolen blankets and furs on the arm of the couch. (he’d taken one look at the sole ratty quilt ranboo had brought and left to retrieve spare blankets from one of techno’s chests.) 

“not really, it’s just.” ranboo glances down ruefully at the bundle of fluff wriggling in his grasp — a rabbit; a tiny little thing with tucked back ears, a wet looking nose, and a piebald coat. “i don’t have like, a crate? for ranbun. so he usually sleeps in bed with me. and i’m worried he’ll fall down the trap door while i’m asleep.”

so the couch it is, and despite techno’s myriad complaints about the intrusion into his space, on the mornings techno and phil are both awake before ranboo, techno makes sure the mugs don’t clink as he fixes their morning tea, and when he goes out for chores, he makes sure to close the door instead of just letting it swing shut. phil doesn’t call him on it. 

the kid’s got his enderchest, a chest or two of random building materials and food stuffs he’s accrued since leaving l’manberg, his tools, and not much besides that but the clothes on his back. he doesn’t blame phil or techno, which makes it worse, somehow. and phil still can’t think about ranboo’s lost house without thinking about ghostbur’s lost sheep, about a house he no longer cares about with a view of the place he’d watched his oldest friend’s skull split open by an anvil before soul-magic knit it back together again, and — he catches himself on the edge of spiraling far too many times and he’s still not comfortable with it. 

every time ranboo curls in on himself at an unavoidable mention of l’manberg, the voices begin a mournful murmur, and the more phil ignores them, the more headaches he gets. techno notices, judging by the amount of times he’s squinting against fuzzy migraine floaters when a heavy hand drops onto his shoulder and gives a comforting squeeze, and he turns his head sideways to meet techno’s understanding, sympathetic gaze.

phil’s not...surprised...by techno realizing when things are bad almost before phil himself realizes. techno is _techno_ , and they’re a _team_ — more than that, a wordless something that doesn’t need defining; of _course_ techno can read him like an open book. but ranboo is a greater surprise. when he notices things getting bad for phil, he gets quieter. he makes himself scarce, and manages somehow, despite his height, to make himself take up less space, and phil is angry at himself for allowing it to happen and grateful all at once. 

“you can just tell me to shut up, you know,” ranboo offers, trying to be helpful, because he’s sweet like that, on one particularly bad day. they’re snowbound and phil is _wingless_ , _grounded_ , and the space of the cabin feels stiflingly small. techno is out boarding up a portion of the turtle farm that had collapsed under accumulated snow, and it’s just the two of them left inside, phil slumped over the tabletop, elbows braced and arms shaking out of sight beneath the heavy sleeves of his jacket. ranboo’s moving around the kitchen behind him and his shoulders are trembling with tension. an arm reaches over his shoulder and he has to slam his eyes shut to avoid jerking his shoulders up around his fucking ears, trying to mantle his wings. _birdbrain_ , a voice hums at the edge of his consciousness, before he pushes it back under.

when he peels his eyes open, there’s a mug of tea in front of him, steam curling up from it, and ranboo is an out-of-focus blur at the edge of his vision, perched worriedly on the edge of a chair, kneading his hands together in his lap.

“sorry, what?” he asks, thick, and immediately takes a sip of too hot tea to disguise his horror at how awful he sounds. it scalds his tongue and burns going down his throat, and he clutches the thread of pain and rides it back up to awareness. right. adulting. 

“if i’m being annoying. or like, if you want space. you can just tell me to, y’know, shut up, or — or go away for a bit. i won’t be offended or anything, i know i get really fidgety and annoying, so i totally wouldn’t blame you,” ranboo says, so earnest, and phil wants to go to bed more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. 

“i’m not gonna tell you to — prime, kid, who told you you were annoying?” phil says, wearily rubbing his forehead.

ranboo tugs at the tip of his ear. they’re tucked back against his messy hair, the way they always are when he’s stressed. “uh. realistically, probably everyone, but — quackity, for sure. i was minutes man for l’manberg, remember? apparently i disrupted cabinet meetings a lot. with the like—” he pauses and flaps a hand half-heartedly and lets out a staticky warble, then chuckles nervously. “i dunno why they didn’t replace me, it seems like i was a pain to be around. sorry, i know i’m talking a lot.”

phil pushes the mug of tea away and rests his head on his hands, blinking down at the table pixels from his face. “you’re fine, mate. quackity’s just an arse,” he says, muffled, against the tabletop.

“oh! um. okay.” ranboo sounds uncertain and unconvinced, and on a better day, phil might continue on, but fuck, he’s barely staying afloat himself today. the kid’s on his own. 

after a minute of silence, ranboo begins to hum a familiar tune, and phil clings to the sound absently, following the notes as they progress into a melody he can put a name to. “cat?” he asks, after thirty seconds or so of the tune.

ranboo _vwoops_ happily, making phil smile into the crook of his arm. the teen’s been vocalizing more freely over the past months; chittering when he’s hyper-focused on something, contented chirps and hums when something catches his fancy, and crackly trills when he’s moving grass blocks from place to place. “yeah! you could tell? i’m not good at carrying a tune. what about this?” he starts humming again; a staccato, shuffling tune this time, note progression like a staircase.

“blocks?” phil guesses.

“yep.” he resumes humming, and phil pushes himself upright to listen, wrapping his hands around the mug and letting the warmth seep into his stiff fingers. 

“is that mellohi?” he asks, after another few seconds.

there’s a glazed look to ranboo’s eyes, and he stares at phil for a moment. then he smiles, looking a little befuddled, and says with a shrug, “i guess, yeah. it’s been stuck in my head lately but i couldn’t remember the name. i—i think tubbo might’ve played it for me once?”

phil hums in acknowledgement and doesn’t think too hard about it. ranboo gets that hazy look sometimes when he’s searching for a memory that doesn’t exist anymore, and he knows from experience that drawing attention to it will just upset him. so instead he sips his tea and asks, “d’you know this one?” he’s never been musically inclined — wilbur didn’t get that from him — but he can carry a tune decently, and after a few moments, ranboo’s eyes brighten in recognition and he asks, “stal?” hesitantly, but with confidence in his expression. phil nods, and there’s a brief flurry of movement as ranboo shakes his hands out in excitement at lap level. some of the knotted tension between phil’s shoulderblades bleeds out.

they sit in companionable silence for a moment, before phil frowns as he realizes something. “you—i _told_ you this was something i did, didn’t i? the songs. weeks ago.”

ranboo shifts nervously in his chair. “i, uh, wrote it down that afternoon so i wouldn’t forget. i...hope that’s okay?”

phil’s heart is in his throat and it hurts to swallow. it’s not a new feeling, but it is a rare one — like a robin, perched in the palm of his hand; new and familiar and warm and wanting to be cared for. “aw mate,” phil says, soft enough that his voice catches and loses the last syllable or so. “thanks. seriously, thank you.”

ranboo smiles at him, awkward. “you’re not, uh. not annoyed?”

“why would i be annoyed?” phil asks in genuine confusion. 

ranboo shrugs and picks at a stray thread on his cuff. “sometimes people don’t like when i write about them in my memory book.” from his tone, phil can tell there’s a history behind that, and from fragments ranboo has let slip about his time in the l’manberg cabinet, he can guess who is likely involved in it. he makes yet another note to, at some point, corner quackity and have a very, very brief discussion about his treatment of a certain ender hybrid. and then have a significantly longer and even more violent conversation about technoblade. but that’s neither here nor there. 

“do you know,” phil says, swirling around the tea leaves at the bottom of his mug. “i can never remember techno’s birthday. known him nearly a decade; can’t for the life of me remember the date. there is so much useless shit stored in my brain and i can’t remember the day my best friend was born.” he shrugs. “so i wrote it down. it’s important to me so i wrote it down. it’s not weird, ranboo, and it’s certainly not annoying.”

a smile spreads across ranboo’s face and the voices in phil’s head go wild for a brief few seconds, overwhelming any conscious thoughts. _AWW CUTE omg that’s so sweet what AdoraBoo he’s got a nice smile Farming for awws lol FRIENDZA_

 _so fuckin’ soft, old man_ , wilbur’s voice teases him, brutal and gentle all at once, and phil blinks, hard, against the sting of tears. but ranboo is smiling at him like he hung the sun in the sky, and techno is stamping off the snow from his boots on the front door mat, and he thinks, possibly, the three of them might be okay.


End file.
